


Unleashed Desires

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Barebacking, Bottom Kitagawa Yusuke, Butt Plugs, Collars, Drama, First Time, Foot Fetish, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Leashes, M/M, Minor Kitagawa Yusuke/Original Male Character(s), Oral Sex, Pining, Post-Canon, Pseudo-Incest, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Sexual Abuse, Top Kurusu Akira, Top Madarame Ichiryusai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: Yusuke confronts his past in an unorthodox way."I want to understand you like you understand art, Yusuke."The words make him shudder, a chill rippling through him. He doesn't tell Akira that the painting he asked to enact with him is of Yusuke himself. A perverse depiction immortalized in an art gallery for all to see; one of the few pieces Madarame hadn't stolen in some way, unless Yusuke's innocence counted.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Madarame Ichiryusai, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 88
Collections: Iddy Iddy Bang Bang! 2020





	Unleashed Desires

"For art," Yusuke says, licking at his dry lips. "Like the maiden kneeling before her god, bent over to kiss the very feet he walks upon."

Leblanc's attic is cold, even as the hum of the small space heater ticks on. Akira is sitting on his bed, peering down at Yusuke on the floor. His hair is wet from the rain, dark and curling upon itself. He had been outside when Yusuke first arrived, a wet rat in the rain, feeling drawn to whatever magnetical pull they have between them.

Yusuke can't blame his worry bordering on excitement, not after the requests he's made.

"And in this scenario of yours," Akira says, crossing his legs, "they were naked? This god and this woman."

"I have added my own interpretation to the piece," Yusuke replies, almost defensively. He can see that Akira isn't buying his justification, but that doesn't matter now. Not when he is this close to redeeming his soul, only but a hair's width away from the absolution he craves.

"You saw this painting in a gallery." Akira leans over him, graciously allowing Yusuke to bask in his shadow. Yusuke doesn't look away, not from the eyes he wishes to bathe in, their very gaze a blessing, but neither does he wish for all of his secrets to be laid bare just yet. "You're the expert here. Tell me what you want."

Yusuke shakes his head. From his position here on the floor, he can see the crates holding up the mattress. Akira is only visiting Tokyo for a few days; he'll be gone again soon, swept back to his hometown like the unforgiving tides of the sea. It felt like the right time to ask, as much as it ever could.

"It is your judgment that I defer to," Yusuke admits.

Akira's face darkens. "And why would you do that?"

All around them are reminders of the past. The couch all of the Phantom Thieves once sat on, through both joy and sadness; the floor Yusuke had lain his futon upon for a single night of mercy; the television they watched art movies on, where Akira indulged as many of Yusuke's special interests that he could. The past has built them up, the pillar on which their lives have grown, but Yusuke doesn't want to be defined by it. It's the future that he craves, but ever since Akira left and the Phantom Thieves disbanded, it feels like it's been slipping through his fingers like water.

"Because you are you," Yusuke says, as if this explains anything. And in a way, it does — but maybe not to Akira just yet. Maybe he has yet to hear the tinge of desperation laced in his voice.

Akira shrugs. "Shall we begin, then? Whenever you're ready."

Yusuke tenderly touches his feet, feeling the bones come to life as Akira wiggles his toes at him.

"I am grateful for your cooperation," Yusuke says, a sigh against his skin. "So very grateful."

Hovering high above him like a god, Akira sucks in a deep breath. "I know how much art means to you. Or I try to understand, anyway."

Akira tilts his head up to face him, thumb upon his chin. When Yusuke sees his eyes, glossy and gray, he wants to tell him everything; every inch of pain that has marred his skin. He nearly succumbs to those eyes.

"I want to understand you like you understand art, Yusuke."

The words make him shudder, a chill rippling through him. He doesn't tell Akira that the painting he asked to enact with him is of Yusuke himself. A perverse depiction immortalized in an art gallery for all to see; one of the few pieces Madarame hadn't stolen in some way, unless Yusuke's innocence counted.

First he unbuttons his coat, snapping open each of the buttons with trembling hands. His face is against Akira's feet again, but they are still now. Maybe it's the gravity of the situation that weighs them down, pinning them to the floor and sucking all humor from Akira.

Yusuke doesn't sit up until he's unbuttoned his shirt as well, his chest finally bare to the chill in the room. Once he's peeled off his coat and shirt, he reaches for the buckle of his pants, standing up to pull them off as Akira watches him, hands resting beside him on the bed.

To ask for those hands would be too much; he doesn't want to seem ungrateful for Akira's compliance. But it's like Akira reads his mind as he reaches out to him, holding his hips as if he thinks Yusuke is preparing to bolt. He runs his fingers up and down Yusuke's sides, a pleasant tickle tinging his skin.

The last article of clothing that remains is Yusuke's scarf. It is a splash of color, reds and blues and greens, hanging upon an otherwise empty canvas — blank to the naked eye, that is. He touches the scarf gingerly, its fabric soft as he twists it in his fingers.

Akira doesn't have to ask him to take it off, doesn't have to tell him to hurry up. Yusuke unwraps it, letting it fall to the floor, squeezing his eyes shut as the silence sets in.

The bed creaks as Akira pulls him closer, his breath a scorching fire against Yusuke's stomach. He doesn't ask about the crimson collar wrapped around his throat — it had been in Yusuke's initial proposal, after all — but neither does he inquire about the state of his growing erection, springing to life right before his eyes.

Akira pulls the bag Yusuke brought with him into his lap, digging inside for a moment before pulling the red leash from its confinement with a flourish.

 _The re-creation will include a collar,_ Yusuke had told him. _Representing possession. A leash, for both pain and an unwillingness to cease control. Kneeling and lavishing affection upon your feet will be symbolic of worship and submission._

 _You mentioned something else before,_ Akira had replied. _Something about a tail?_

Every moment is another step up the mountain to enlightenment. Yusuke kneels before him again, and Akira clips the leash to his collar, lightly tugging to test its durability.

"Tell me if it's too much," Akira says, concern slipping into his voice.

"It will not be too much."

_It cannot._

When Akira sets the bag next to his feet, Yusuke's admiration begins in full. He nuzzles Akira's feet, running the tip of his nose from his toes up to his ankle. If he were blindfolded in some way, he likes to think that he would know these feet, as absurd as the idea sounds. If there were a dozen feet in front of him, Yusuke tells himself that he could pick Akira's out in a heartbeat. The thought grounds him, binding him to Akira with a particular intimacy.

Despite everything that Yusuke has been through in his short life thus far, he likes to imagine that love conquers all.

He tests their newfound intimacy, pressing the tip of his tongue to the top of Akira's foot. It tastes like skin and little else, freshly washed and stripped of flavor. He runs his tongue along the side of his foot, stopping at his ankle again. There, he pauses to kiss, to ravish with his lips. Beneath him, Akira remains admirably still.

Worship. Submission. Those words hadn't been a lie, but there is more to it, of course. There always is. It is a lie by omission.

The moment Yusuke is still for too long, Akira tugs at the leash. Yusuke's head snaps forward, and he gasps.

"Was that too much?" Akira asks, his voice sugary sweet when Yusuke desires anything but that. What he wants now is for Akira to pull the leash until Yusuke is left choking, gagging for air, all the while refusing to inquire about his wellbeing whatsoever. To hurt him, to use him — as countless others have before — but what sounds pleasurable in his head isn't always a direct translation to real life.

"I am fine," Yusuke says. If his erection is anything to go by, already weeping pre-come onto the floorboards, he is better than fine.

Yusuke continues to kiss Akira's feet, brushing his lips across his skin. Then with his cheek, then his forehead. The silence fuels him, a cacophony of leering voices rumbling off in the distance that only he can hear.

If only he could redeem the time, redeem the innocence so harshly stripped from him.

He mouths the words against Akira's bare feet: _I love you, but I am afraid._ Akira shifts beneath him, the rapid movement of his lips tickling him. His hands scoop up Akira's feet, easing them into his palms so that he can rub circles into them.

There are no moans of men whose names he doesn't know. There's just Akira above him, wiggling his toes at him, a warning sign. Yusuke lets time pass, allowing the distant voices to screech at him again, and Akira once more pulls at his leash, harder this time.

Their eyes meet, glossy graphite and a long-dead gray. Can Akira see the pain? Has he glimpsed the destruction Yusuke seeks?

Akira says nothing. His grip on the leash is tight, the lead wrapped tightly around his fingers. With his free hand, he tips Yusuke's chin up toward him again when he tries to look away.

A strange sound builds up in Yusuke's throat, half sigh and half moan. He nuzzles Akira's knee before creeping closer, pressing his luck to the brink, leaning over him to lie his cheek against the front of his pants. Almost agonizingly warm as he feels his hardness, with nothing but the fabric of his pants to separate them.

Is Akira's silence saying this is all right? He isn't pulling on the leash, either, but that could mean a million different things.

Yusuke hasn't been this close to another person since before Madarame's change of heart.

* * *

His innocence had been shattered years ago when Madarame began creeping into Yusuke's room, his lips a slobbery mess of rubber upon his neck. He'd peel back the blankets and crawl onto the futon, forcing his body against Yusuke's, attempting to fit together two pieces from the opposite sides of a puzzle. At first he tried to be quiet, slinking into his room through a crack in the door. But then he grew bolder, a hint of alcohol on his breath as he told him how beautiful he was, muttering his praises into Yusuke's hair.

"Forgive this old man," Madarame would bemoan, his excuses dripping like acid. "It is the drink. And you are so beautiful. You know that, don't you? Everyone thinks it. These men, these rich and powerful collectors of art, they pull me aside at galleries, and they tell me how breathtaking you are. How lucky I am to have you."

For all the time that Yusuke knew Madarame, he was never drunk. He appreciated fine sake at times, making an event out of drinking it with the men he called his colleagues, but not in excess. And yet for a long time, Yusuke told himself that that's what it was: folly brought out by intoxication. He saw through the facade, and yet he didn't have it in him to confront it at the time.

Even as Madarame's hands slipped beneath his shirt and past the waistband of his pants, he still held onto his love for his sensei. Even as he wept silent tears, Madarame pressed his erection against his backside, stripping Yusuke of his clothing as if he were owed such a privilege. As if it were his right to do so.

The first time Madarame forced himself into Yusuke's mouth, he didn't know what to do. His sensei didn't tell him what he expected of him, either; Madarame just held onto his head, clutching at his hair as his hips started moving faster and faster. Then there was the bitterness filling Yusuke's mouth, and while it wasn't an altogether unpleasant taste, he didn't know what to do. Would spitting it out offend his sensei?

Yusuke didn't know, nor could he ask, so he swallowed every drop. Madarame cooed at him, telling him how proud he was of him. Such a good boy. Then came the daggers, hidden as praises: Yusuke must have loved his taste. Being able to pleasure his caregiver was an honor that he did not bestow upon many, and it was the implication of there being more that struck Yusuke.

How many of his students had Madarame abused like this over the years? It was almost bearable when Yusuke thought he was the lone victim, debasing himself so that all of the others could live in the light. Yusuke's heart sank when he realized it wasn't that simple. It never was.

No matter how many times Yusuke brushed his teeth, the taste still lingered. He rested his palms on the bathroom counter, and when he peered into the mirror, he didn't recognize his own face anymore.

His body felt so full afterward: full of sin, the punishment that he deserved, and other words he wasn't ready to acknowledge just yet.

It wasn't long until Madarame taught him how to vocalize those words, training Yusuke to pleasure him like it was one of the things expected of him as his student. In return for Madarame's generosity, Yusuke became accustomed to stripping whenever his mentor demanded it. And then Madarame's erection would press between his thighs until finally, it escalated to being inside him, Yusuke's body stretched beyond its limits and his throat raw from pained gasps.

Yusuke thought it couldn't get any worse. He gave Madarame everything he could — his body, his soul, his unending loyalty — and he truly believed that was enough. Madarame would be satisfied with this.

Yusuke was wrong.

With Madarame, Yusuke was even able to reach orgasm eventually. Madarame conditioned him, wrenching his pleasure out of him over time, always reminding him that it was mercy being bestowed upon him. A gift.

"Am I not merciful?" Madarame had asked him once, hands still on Yusuke's hips after he had finished riding him, his half-hard length still inside him. It was Madarame's favorite position — to lie back and have Yusuke work for it. His so-called gift.

Yusuke nodded. His skin was wet with sweat and his hair stuck to his forehead. Although he had felt the rumblings of sexual desire before all of this began, it was never like this. Never so tangible. Erections would hit him at the strangest times, but he never felt the agonizing pull to explore. If he had time to sneak his hand into his underwear, he had time to paint. He would grind against things on occasion, from his futon to the cushions downstairs, but he never managed to bring himself to orgasm.

It was Madarame who first led him to the pleasures of sex. As wrong as he knew it was, and as guilted as he felt into making his sensei happy, Yusuke started to go along with his whims. Even when Madarame told him that other people had relationships like this, mentees sworn to please their mentors in whatever ways they desired.

Madarame showed him history books, the pages glossy and bright. Yusuke would always humor him, nodding and inquiring when he felt it was appropriate — "And relationships such as these still occur today, correct?" — but none of it mattered. Madarame didn't need to groom him with long-gone history; he merely had to tell Yusuke that it was what he wanted.

Yusuke would have done anything for his sensei.

"I would like to introduce you to some friends of mine," Madarame said, squeezing Yusuke's hips. The suggestion seemed innocuous at the time, and he wasn't in a position to deny Madarame anything.

Thus continued the spiral of betrayal. Madarame not only violated him — his trust, his love, his dedication — but he offered him up to countless men. Yusuke never learned most of their names; it was safer for them that way.

Madarame watched, praising him.

_You take them so well, Yusuke. Open your eyes, now. Stay with us. There are so many men who wish to ravish you, Yusuke. Crawl over to me. That's a good boy. Use your mouth. You'll take care of your sensei, won't you? After all that I have done for you._

_You are so very beautiful._

The collar twisted around his neck. The leash, red like blood. His body used and his soul shattered.

Yusuke wouldn't have run, even without the leash to keep him in place. He was always bound, always anchored to Madarame's side. Physical restraints had never been necessary.

After the Phantom Thieves stole Madarame's heart, Yusuke returned to him. If the process proposed by his new comrades were real, then Madarame wouldn't hurt him anymore. He'd close up on himself like a shell before finally confessing his crimes.

And confess he did — but it was to Yusuke first.

Madarame admitted to him that there had never been any other victims; it had always just been Yusuke. The implication that he might hurt others was merely a threat he used to keep Yusuke under his thumb — one of his many tools. A palette covered in an infinite number of paint splotches, from which he could use any color. And the end product, the goal, had always been Yusuke himself. To keep him leashed, so to speak.

Although Madarame wept, his tears thick and miserable, soaking Yusuke's shirt, he never pushed him away. As deep as the numbness was twisting inside him, Yusuke never abandoned his sensei.

* * *

Then came the painting. It's still on display in the art gallery, even now, despite Madarame's fall from grace. After his change of heart, his art started selling for a fraction of what he had initially sold it for. But now that the dust has settled, people realized that there won't be any more paintings from Madarame, making the few original pieces still in circulation exceptionally rare. And the man himself won't live forever, after all.

No one else understands what the painting is about, but Yusuke does.

It depicts a woman on her knees, her hair an ashen gray. Although her hair is longer than Yusuke's, bound in a thick braid, he knows it's him. The collar around her neck is red, a splash of color in an otherwise muted painting. It's attached to a leash held by a man towering over her, his robes billowing in the two-dimensional breeze. The woman is kissing the man's feet, revering her god. In the background are a multitude of shadowy faces, grinning and leering.

Despite Madarame's alleged persistent art block, preventing him from creating his own original pieces, this one somehow seemed to jump out of him as no other had before. The events he orchestrated had inspired him.

If Yusuke hadn't met Akira and the other Phantom Thieves, those events likely wouldn't have ended, either. Yusuke would have been stuck in a perpetual loop of being forced to offer his body to strange men, over and over until he broke. Until the sweet kiss of death finally greeted him.

Akira's hand is on his head now, ruffling his hair as if it's the softest thing he has ever touched. Tears well up in Yusuke's eyes, and even as he attempts to blink them away, they remain. His hands are shaky as he reaches up to pull open Akira's pants, finally releasing his cock, nestled amongst dark curls. It's nothing like Madarame's, nothing like that of those men. He kisses along the shaft, drinking in the scent of sweat and skin. Akira's moans are music to his ears, and the sudden tug on the leash might be accidental, but it makes Yusuke gasp all the same.

Yusuke hasn't done this in over a year, but his body falls into the motions. He licks at the tip of Akira's cock, bringing him into his mouth. Akira can't help but thrust up, his hips jittery and his hand holding Yusuke's hair tight. The desperation is evident in his movements, and maybe even a hint of inexperience.

Maybe this is one thing Yusuke can give Akira that no one else has before.

He moans around him, his own cock aching, but he can't come yet. Not until Akira tells him he can.

Even when he gags around him, he presses on. Akira's hand slackens in his hair, feeling the way his throat constricts around him. Is he worried? Yusuke wants to tell him that he's fine, that he's living for this, that he's wanted this for so long. Whether it's despite the trauma or in spite of it, he isn't sure.

It's Akira's voice he hears above him, Akira's hands pulling at his hair, and Akira's taste on his tongue. His memories from before seem so far away. The men watch him from afar, but they do not cross the line to the forefront of his mind. They helped shape him, but they aren't who he is now.

The painting was an excuse. It always was.

Akira begs him to stop, and it's the only thing that's able to give Yusuke pause at this point — his retraction of consent, no matter how small. He will never allow Akira to feel that he doesn't have the right to choose when sex stops.

"It feels so good," Akira says comfortingly, patting Yusuke's head. "I just didn't want to come in your mouth."

"Why not?" Yusuke asks. "Where will you come, then?"

Perhaps inside him, across his chest, or on his face. Yusuke is open to suggestions. It's nothing he hasn't done before.

"Yusuke." Again Akira lifts his chin to face him. "This isn't about me. This is about you."

He shakes his head. Akira is wrong; this has always been about him. From the moment they met, when Yusuke had been frosty with distrust, with even a willingness to exploit them if it meant Ann would pose for his painting — Madarame had taught him the game well, even if he was rusty in practice — to the moment Yusuke realized he was in love.

* * *

All those months ago, his hands had begun to shake when he painted, and Yusuke didn't know why. All he knew was that Akira was so warm; he wanted nothing more than to be closer to him, personal space be damned.

His hands were flecked with paint that day. He had let the faucet in his dorm room run, lazily running his hands beneath the icy water. Afterward, as the muddy colors dried on his hands, he thought of the warmth he had never known before then. Should he chase it? What was the strange tightness in his chest, anyway? He didn't desire to paint Akira in the same way as he did with Ann, her beauty a siren's call of inspiration.

Akira was beautiful but in a different way. Akira made something flutter in Yusuke's stomach, made him want to kiss him beneath the glowing stars of the planetarium. Both a quiet sort of affection and a raging sea within his chest.

Later that day, he made his way to Leblanc. It was just him, Akira, Morgana, and Sojiro. The latter two were absorbed with the lastest news playing on the TV, although Morgana was more interested in slinking past Sojiro to the kitchenette while he was distracted.

Again, Yusuke's hands twitched. Akira didn't notice at first, and Yusuke couldn't blame him, despite the fire in him craving his closeness. But, oh, when he finally did notice, Akira's face lit up. He reached for Yusuke's hands, bringing them into his own, brushing them with his thumbs.

Akira didn't ask. He just led Yusuke to the small sink, smiling all the while. Even when Akira started washing his hands, easing the soap across his skin, Yusuke could feel his smile.

At that moment, Yusuke finally understood the pull he was feeling. He understood what laid at the end of the rope that he was forever tugging.

Tugging.

* * *

Yusuke sits back and pulls his bag into his lap. For a moment, his erection is invisible to Akira, but he knows it's there. The thought makes him shiver. Akira knows exactly how he makes him feel.

He grabs a bottle of lube and a toy from the bag before setting it aside. The lid of the bottle snaps off with a pop, and then the icy lube is dripping on his hand as he reaches behind himself.

"Yusuke." Akira's voice is breathy, a man deprived of orgasm after having been so close. "Is that —"

The toy is a butt plug with a white fox tail attached, its synthetic fibers soft to the touch. Yusuke wove the red ribbon around it himself, painstakingly attempting to recreate his tail from the Metaverse. It is part of him there, and it can be part of him here now, too.

The leash shakes in Akira's hands. He wants to pull, to drag Yusuke to him, to kiss, to touch. Yusuke can taste his lust in the air; if his past has taught him one thing, it's that — to be able to ascertain when a man desires him.

He eases the plug inside himself, squatting so that he can position it just right. Then there's no more left to press inside, and he's left with a strange fullness. He hasn't had anything or anyone inside himself like this for a long time.

Akira tugs at the leash now, dragging Yusuke's face back to his lap. He licks at his cock, wet with pre-come and saliva, like a man starved. When he swallows around him, bringing him as far into his mouth as he can, Akira bucks his hips.

There are tears in his eyes from the strain, his jaw aching, but it's a dull, pleasant pain. The moans from Akira's mouth make it all worth it, filling him with glee.

Yusuke feels useful and wanted, for the first time in what seems like forever.

"Rock your hips," Akira says. "Back and forth. Like that, yeah."

The plug tickles that spot inside him, making him moan around Akira's cock. A truly pitiful sound, muffled around him, but it causes Akira's hips to move faster. Yusuke wants to let him fuck his mouth as deeply as he pleases, so he focuses on the dull pleasure inside his ass as Akira thrusts into his mouth.

And then Akira comes, pulling at his hair, his hips shuddering wildly. Yusuke keeps sucking, swallowing around him, his come thick and bitter on his tongue. He swallows not because he has to, but because he wants to.

Before Yusuke can sit back, Akira is tugging on the leash again, pulling him up before pushing him onto the bed. He's panting above him, his hair sweaty and his eyes ablaze. Akira touches a drop of come on his chin, wiping it across his lips.

Yusuke licks his finger, their gaze never breaking, because it is Akira's taste.

His cock is still hard against his stomach, waiting for Akira's next move. But instead of relieving him, Akira tosses his end of the leash onto the bed. He doesn't need it anymore. Instead, he grabs the base of the plug and pulls it out, agonizingly slow. Yusuke's toes curl against the sheets, his knees quivering — and then Akira pushes it back in, making Yusuke's back arch up off the bed. Again and again, until Yusuke is a mess of moans, his hips pivoting toward Akira.

Their first kiss is bitter, the taste of Akira's come still on his tongue as they explore, but it is sweet, too.

Akira strokes his tail, the fur tickling Yusuke's thighs. That is exactly what it has become: Yusuke's, and no one else's. Akira presses it against his cheek, dabbing the fluffy tip across his nose.

And then Yusuke is empty again, the tail set aside for another time, he hopes. Akira looms over him, his eyes still fiery but his breathing more even.

"I must admit that my interest in such acts is not altogether altruistic," Yusuke finally admits. Something about the timing feels right, with Akira's cock sliding against his ass teasingly. A final confession before they lose themselves in one another.

Yusuke reaches up to trace the collar around his throat, his fingers sliding beneath the restraint to feel his tender skin. This isn't the first time he has been bound in such a way; it's just the first time he has consented to it. Akira won't let him forget that — that he has a choice. Always.

"It doesn't have to be," Akira says. "Not with me. Just be you."

Yusuke doesn't realize the tears have returned until Akira is wiping them away, his fingers gently caressing his face, as if he is something precious. Akira's treasure. His words fill him, making his heart buoyant.

Even if Akira knew the truth of his past, he wouldn't abandon him. He would not turn away. He would look Yusuke in the face and try to take some of the hurt into his own heart.

That is Akira's way.

Yusuke tries to relax his body when Akira eases himself inside, finally twining their bodies together. He clutches at Akira's back, rocking his hips back before he's even fully inside him. Although he craves more, could such words leave his lips again without the dull, forced tone he had gotten so used to?

For Akira, he tries. He gasps against his lips, tongue slipping into his mouth. It's warm and it's home. His nails scratch along his back, his legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. What a strange sight they must make, with Yusuke clutching onto him for dear life.

"More," he moans, his voice deep and rough, a mountain of history behind the single word.

Yusuke's favorite thing is seeing Akira pant above him, biting his lip, all because of him. His glasses threaten to slip over his ears before he pauses to take them off and set them aside. Then his hands are squeezing Yusuke's hips, fucking him harder, as if those few moments were agonizing for him.

Akira kisses his neck, sucking at his skin, and Yusuke can already feel the burn of the red welts forming, love bites peppered along his skin. He cradles Akira's head in his arms as he moans against him, all for Yusuke.

This hadn't been in the itinerary, but Yusuke had dreamt of it, of Akira wanting him even a fraction as much as Yusuke has always wanted him. From unimaginable betrayal, to their first meeting caked in apprehension, to their extensive Palace explorations, to the moment Akira held Yusuke's hands beneath the faucet with such tenderness.

Even now, Yusuke can hear that water. He can feel its chill.

 _I am yours,_ he had wanted to say then. _Utterly. Inexplicably. Eternally bound._

He says it now, and even though he chokes on the words as Akira rocks into his prostate, his lover understands. Akira grabs his hand, twining their fingers together on the bed.

"I won't let you go," Akira says, and although he couldn't possibly understand what the sentiment means to Yusuke after all that he's been through, it still feels like he does somehow. He might not know the particulars, but he understands the weight behind his words.

Yusuke has never felt more adored, more on display, awash with the limelight. It's all from Akira. All for him.

He reaches down to stroke his cock, his hips shuddering from the overwhelming stimulation. He can't remember the last time he was this aroused, this wet with pre-come, if he ever even has been. There is pleasure, allowing his body to run through its course to orgasm, and then there is loving every minute of it.

Akira refuses to break eye contact, even when he comes inside him. It's as if he doesn't want Yusuke to forget even a moment of it: who he's with, who adores him, who's making his body tremble. Yusuke cups his cheek, pulling him down for a kiss, his free hand still jerking his cock, moaning against Akira's lips.

When his orgasm crashes through him, Akira is here to hold him, to kiss him, to anchor him. His back arches up and Akira takes the opportunity to pinch his nipples, twisting them between his fingers. He pulls at them, ever so slightly, and Yusuke's breath leaves him. Yusuke has no doubt that this will be something for them to explore more of later.

He falls back on the bed, his stomach covered in come. Akira dips his fingers in it, tastes it, then kisses Yusuke. Still bitter, just like Akira's, but now they've both tasted each other.

Akira pets his head, ruffling his hair. Yusuke touches his face, tracing the shape of his cheekbone. Their moment might be over, but Yusuke doesn't want to let it go just yet. He grasps for it, the words on the tip of his tongue, but Akira beats him to it. His beloved, his muse, his friend.

"I love you," Akira says. His smile is gold. "It's probably weird to be saying that now, after everything. But better late than never, right?"

Yusuke tries to smile back, but it pales in comparison. How could a lowly man such as himself ever compare to the infinite stars in the sky?

"Yes. Better late than never."

Akira touches his collar, and when Yusuke places his hands over his, he begins to undo it. He's only been wearing the collar for a few hours, but what removing it represents has been a long time in the making. The pain still exists inside him, buried deep, but part of him is letting it go.

"I apologize if you feel that I coerced you into such a situation," Yusuke says. The collar's buckle clangs against the floor. "It was not my intention."

"You didn't make me do anything. I wanted to. I'd do anything for you, Yusuke."

He wonders if it's the same sort of "anything" that a bright-eyed student once felt for his teacher. That sense of loyalty he thought could never be severed.

When Yusuke closes his eyes, there is an easel in front of him, adjusted to his height. Giddiness fills his chest, and he holds his paintbrush in his fist. Madarame towers above him, his hand on Yusuke's shoulder.

 _I can be an artist like you someday?_ the child asks, full of wonder. He starts with the brightest colors of paint before he starts to explore with mixing on his tiny palette. Even the muddiest colors enthrall him.

 _Yes, Yusuke,_ his father figure says. _You can be whatever you wish. Whatever your heart desires._

Although Yusuke's childlike innocence left him long ago, the passion he felt back then still remains. Before he can stop himself, the words pour out of him like water. The dam has broken.

His mouth is dry, but he keeps talking. Akira doesn't interrupt; it's like he's not even here, as if Yusuke is reciting his woe to the attic walls. But he's not. The silence envelops him with love.

Akira holds him. He cries with him, running his fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead through the tears. He lets Yusuke tell his story. Not a single question passes his lips; he accepts Yusuke's tale for what it is.

For a long while back as a Phantom Thief, Yusuke wondered why he hadn't hunted down the men who hurt him. With the power and influence that the Phantom Thieves had eventually accumulated, it might've been possible.

Rehabilitation.

But Yusuke wasn't ready to voice his pain then. Now the Metaverse is inaccessible, collapsed upon itself in a heap of rubble.

Would he still chase after that same vengeance if the Metaverse were still around — if he were given a second chance?

Akira squeezes his hand, and together, they sigh. It is a breath of both exhaustion and relief. He wraps his arm around Akira's shoulder, pulling him close, and Akira circles his around Yusuke's waist.

Yusuke isn't so sure he'd seek vengeance now.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan on writing a prequel about the mobkita scene at a later time...!


End file.
